


Dead Man's Glass

by elpenor



Series: Creek & Taschner [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Americans, Gen, Native American Character(s), Native American/First Nations Legends & Lore, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpenor/pseuds/elpenor
Summary: Just before completing fifth grade, Wayland Ready learns his mother has died. Rather than spend the summer like a fifth grader should, Wayland must slowly learn to make do with his "temporary parents" as the government looks to find him a permanent home. However, a letter addressed to Wayland arrives from a prestigious preparatory school offering him the chance of a lifetime. It might change his future for the better - or for the worse.---A Creek & Taschner story, set in a universe adjacent to the Harry Potter universe.





	1. Temporary Parents

It looked like a normal red-brick narrow house in the front, which even the least astute traveler would see all over the place in Maryland. Many would claim this style to be part of the local color, something unique to the area, but it always looked dry to Wayland. In the back, there was a parking lot and the building stretched out alongside it – something not normally seen in narrow houses. And the narrow house was not a normal place. It was here that he would be driven every few weeks to make inquiries, fill out paperwork, and sit around for an hour or two being bored with his temporary parents.

When he was ten, Wayland was taken out of school one afternoon and told that his mother had been killed. Apparently, she’d drowned in the Baltimore Harbor. The details were sparse, as was the funeral, and with no living relatives and no named guardian, Wayland was promptly placed into the care of the state.

His temporary parents, Mr. and Mrs. Yoon, were pleasant enough people, but they no longer had the stamina to forge anything beyond a sort of parental friendship with the children they had volunteered to foster while the nonprofit was finding a permanent home. Wayland knew this. He just didn’t know when it would end. By that point, he’d been moved several dozen miles south and finished fifth grade in a new school. His life had been taken apart and shoddily remade, and even over the summer, he hadn’t made any friends close enough to spend an afternoon with. So, spending an afternoon at the narrow house was almost a breath of fresh air, if the air inside weren’t so stale.

“Don’t sulk, dear,” Mrs. Yoon said, sitting down with a clipboard. The waiting room was off-white, rather plastic-y, and not air conditioned very well, and Wayland briefly considered grabbing the clipboard to fan himself. “It’s a process. I’m sure it won’t be long now.”

“You said that months ago,” Wayland muttered.

Mrs. Yoon sighed. “Yes, I did. If it were me, I’d find you a happy family tomorrow. Maybe with a friendly brother or sister, too,” she added, patting Wayland’s shoulder in a way she must have thought was comforting. She did this often.

“You two aren’t a happy family?”

She looked up from the clipboard. “Oh, Wayland, we’ve talked about this. Mr. Yoon and I aren’t looking for a child. We’re just here to help you find a couple who are. If we were to adopt every child we helped… well, we’d need a bigger house.”

Wayland slumped back in his chair. “So I’m not special?”

“Never think about yourself like that, Wayland,” Mrs. Yoon said, suddenly admonishing. “You’re a very special young man. But every young man is very special.” Like the shoulder pat, this was not something that encouraged Wayland.

“Mr. Ready?”

The two paused and looked over to the doorway near the front desk. A slightly bulbous man in a button-up blue shirt (which was stained in unfortunate places) was looking vaguely around the waiting room, despite the fact that Wayland and Mrs. Yoon were the only two present. No one at the agency had called Wayland before. Especially not by his last name. Especially not with a title. For a moment, Wayland thought it might be an unlikely coincidence and that a stranger who shared his last name would materialize nearby and follow the man into the back. But this, of course, did not happen.

“Wayland Ready?” the man asked again, glancing down at his own clipboard briefly before using it to fan himself.

“Mr. Ready is over here,” Mrs. Yoon said, standing cautiously and gesturing at Wayland. Wayland, in the meantime, remained seated. He couldn’t decide if he was suspicious or optimistic just yet.

“Would you two like to step into my office? It’s just back here.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Yoon said, stepping aside so Wayland could stand. “Is there something the matter?”

“Oh, no,” the man said, grinning brightly beneath his peach-colored moustache. “In fact, I believe you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

* * *

The small office was stocked with exactly three chairs, all of which were huddled around an IKEA desk that seemed to be affixed somehow to the nearby wall. Papers were stacked in the corners, filed in a thin bookshelf nearby, and tacked egregiously to the walls. With a flourish, the man sat down and produced a slightly more exciting piece of paper from a small manila folder nearby. It was a thick white envelope with blue decorations around the corners, each decoration detailed with gold filigree around the outside. It looked expensive.

“This arrived in the mail today,” the man said. “It’s addressed to a mister Wayland Ready,” he added, putting emphasis on the mister as though it might excite Wayland, “and we were about to send it back before Sheila recognized the name.”

Mrs. Yoon took the envelope by the corner. “Why exactly was a letter addressed to Wayland sent here?”

“I have no idea. Read the front.”

Wayland peeked over as Mrs. Yoon flipped the envelope to reveal a golden logo in clean, reflective capital letters. “Markus Young Preparatory School,” she muttered, though Wayland hardly needed the help. All he’d done recently was read. He was quite proficient. “It seems like spam to me,” Mrs. Yoon said, glancing up at the man.

“No, the school is the real deal.” The man twisted his old computer monitor around to display a web page, all bright blues and yellows, for Markus Young Preparatory School. “I took a moment to research it. It’s down in Georgia, and it seems pretty top-of-the-line. Usually they wouldn’t be sending these kinds of letters around for no reason. Now, we at the agency are thinking, considering Wayland’s grades, maybe they’ve got some sort of program for disadvantaged kids…” He lowered his voice to say this, which was not particularly effective. “Anyway, with your approval, we can arrange for this easily, depending on the price. We’re behind it a hundred percent.”

Mrs. Yoon thought for a moment and deftly popped the envelope open with her light blue pinky nail. Wayland glanced over, momentarily interested, before he recalled why they’d come to the narrow house at all. “Hold on,” he said, looking with shock between the man and Mrs. Yoon. “A preparatory school is where kids live at school, isn’t it? You’re really thinking about sending me to one?”

“Well, hold on, dear,” Mrs. Yoon said. “We haven’t read the letter yet.” She took it out and handed it to him. “Would you like to do the honors?”

He looked it over, pulling his feet onto the seat. After a paragraph of polite words, the letter became interesting: “Due to Mr. Ready’s circumstances,” he read aloud, “we are offering him a full scholarship through twelfth grade. It –“

Mrs. Yoon plucked the paper from his hands and scanned over it. “It does say that,” she breathed. “And this is a reputable school?” she asked, looking up at the man.

“It is,” he replied. “A full scholarship?”

“That’s what it says!”

“Hold on!” Wayland said again, this time louder. It got their attention. “What about adoption?”

This gave them both pause. Mrs. Yoon scanned over the letter again. “Wayland,” she began, turning her chair as much as she could in the little office, “this is an opportunity. A real opportunity, one where you can use your brain and have a good future. What if you go, just for sixth grade, and we’ll look for a family for you in the meantime? We’ll almost definitely find one by the time you get back.”

“Almost definitely,” Wayland repeated lowly, his legs still tucked underneath him and his arms now folded. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the man was watching him closely, but he was more focused on Mrs. Yoon. She seemed to be pleading with him. He wondered if he was that much of a burden, that Mrs. Yoon would want to get rid of him so suddenly.

Mrs. Yoon sat back in her seat after a moment. “You don’t have to make up your mind this instant,” she said. “The deadline is in a few days.”

“I’ll go,” he blurted. He didn’t want to leave even his temporary home – not really. He’d never been to Georgia and, in fact, wasn’t entirely sure where it was. But maybe Mrs. Yoon would appreciate it if he were gone. And if she didn’t… well, that would be her fault, wouldn’t it?

Mrs. Yoon smiled, but it wasn’t a relieved smile at all. It was more of a somber smile, one that someone might use when seeing their favorite band perform for the last time or when rescuing a very old dog. “This will be great for you, Wayland,” she said, taking his right hand in both of her own. “I’m sure you’re destined for great things.”

As they began to discuss particulars over the IKEA desk, Wayland was no longer so sure.

* * *

It only took them around twenty minutes to confirm the enrollment. As soon as Wayland and Mrs. Yoon left the office, the man waved them down the hall, cautiously shut the office door, and peeled his face off. Below, a pair of curious black eyes darted to the window blinds and a mass of tangled black hair fell in bundles to the man’s shoulders.

He slipped the face into the second drawer on the desk and drew out a gorgeous little wand – red oak, ten and a quarter inches, snallygaster heartstring (obviously). With this, he drew a lopsided circle in midair and tapped it once. A projection slowly phased into view, revealing a smart pair of glasses over studious and discerning eyes and a wispy, dark beard. “Trevor,” the projection said, adjusting his glasses. “Good news, I assume?”

“He’s accepted and we’ve gone through most of the rigamarole,” the man said, picking up the letter and waving it in demonstration. “It looks like we’ll have an interesting pupil this coming year.” He paused, placing the letter into his front pocket and thinking over what he might want to say. “And, sir…”

The projection sighed, which came out as a sort of staticky buzz. “We’ve been over this before, Trevor. I’ve shown you the history and the reports. It’s just not true.”

“Sir, he has my eyes,” Trevor said. “I recognize them like I’d recognize my own in a mirror.”

For a moment, the projection didn’t reply at all. “We will discuss this at a more opportune time, Mr. Ibaia. Now, pack your things and return to campus. There’s work to be done, and only a few weeks to do it.”

The man inhaled and swiped his wand through the projection, sending a whorl of energy through the air. In moments, the face, the wand, and every other trace of him were gone in a flash of violet light.


	2. Flight CT1556

It began to rain as the navy-blue Honda Civic pulled into a parking spot across from the Baltimore airport. The huge building looked rather like a tiered wedding cake made from white concrete and bars of industrial steel, and the long walkway along the departures gates reminded Wayland of an automated assembly line like you might see in a cartoon. Above, silhouettes of planes roared as they took to the sky.

“Did you remember the umbrellas?” Mr. Yoon asked Mrs. Yoon as he opened the trunk. Since they’d received the letter, the Yoons (and Wayland, to a degree) had communicated over the phone with the foster care agency and a few representatives of the school. They’d gathered his clothes into one trunk, his books into another trunk, and his school supplies into a backpack. They’d meticulously planned for his return flight, made sure he understood his food plan, gone over the rules available on the school’s website, and took the time to carefully explain the intricacies of air travel. It’s no wonder they forgot the umbrellas.

By the time they made it through the massive parking lot and across the street to the airport itself, they were mostly soaked, and, since it was turning out to be an uncharacteristically cold autumn, it was miserable. Not that Wayland wasn’t already in a miserable mood. His plan to make Mrs. Yoon renege had backfired badly, and he could tell that this business was far too serious to beg his way back out. Walking through the automatic doors into the airport was the final nail in the coffin.

“What’s Georgia like?” he asked as they wiped their feet in the atrium. It was the first time he’d spoken since they left the house.

“Oh, Georgia is a pretty place,” Mrs. Yoon replied. She was busy shaking off the laminated roadmap that she’d used to keep her hair dry. “You’ll like it there.”

“But what’s it like? It’s in the south, so it must be hot. Is it a desert?”

Mr. Yoon chuckled like he did whenever Wayland asked that sort of question. “No, it’s not a desert, little man,” he said, rubbing Wayland’s mess of black hair. “It’s sort of like Maryland, but they have oranges and alligators.”

Wayland remained quiet as the Yoons checked in his baggage for him. Alligators are carnivores, so the oranges must be unrelated. He thought about this school – coincidentally the same layout as his first elementary school – sat in a marsh surrounded by alligators and orange trees. On one hand, it was both alien and dangerous. On the other, it was rather intriguing.

As soon as they reached the security checkpoint, Mrs. Yoon leaned down to give him a hug. “We’ll miss you, dear. Now, remember to focus on your schoolwork. I know you’ll make friends quickly, but this school might be kind of tough. You can do it if you just… buckle down.”

“That’s an interesting phrase,” Wayland said, smiling a little despite himself.

Mrs. Yoon laughed. “I’m glad you think so.”

He hugged Mrs. Yoon back, his thoughts moving from regret to cautious optimism. _Buckle down_ , he thought.

* * *

He made his way through the security checkpoint, where he noticed the odd looks he was getting from the uniformed guards. They checked his backpack and waved him through a metal detector without hassle, but just in case, he picked up the case. He made his way down the towering hallway; his ticket, a bit crumpled from his pocket, read “Flight CT1556,” which was departing from gate C15. After briefly appearing lost at the junction between the concourses, he hiked up his backpack and pressed on, glancing over his shoulder for anything out of the ordinary.

As he glanced over his shoulder, he ran headfirst into someone and fell back onto his tailbone. “Sorry!” he said preemptively before he looked up. The obstacle in question was a tall woman in a bright white security guard’s uniform, her badge and belt and radio all set at perfect, neat angles. He blinked a few times, wondering whether to run away.

The woman leaned down and offered a hand to help him stand, which he took carefully. “Good morning,” she began with a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been told that you’re traveling alone. Is this true?”

“Yes,” he replied, trying not to stammer.

“Can I see your ID?”

He took out his small travel wallet, which contained every sort of card that he might need on his travels, and handed the security guard a small white card with his name and photo. They had to order it to specifications from the DMV.

She took it and glanced at it. “You’re eleven? Born 2001?” She shook her head and handed the card back. “To travel alone, you have to be twelve. Do you know who dropped you off here?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Yoon,” Wayland said, explaining hastily that they weren’t his real parents, but that they were guardians, and everything was perfectly legal. He explained even more hastily that he was going to Georgia to go to a preparatory school, and the name of the school was Markus Young Preparatory School, and he didn’t want to go but he agreed and now that he’s been thinking about it it might be fun, and he felt as though he might be over-explaining.

The security guard smiled and squatted down to meet his height. “If you’re just going to Georgia, I’ll let it slide. Will you be twelve by the time you come back?”

He shook his head. “My birthday is in the summer.”

“Well, call Mr. and Mrs. Yoon when you get there and ask them to drive down and pick you up. Okay?” She smiled again, but it was more genuine this time. “Now, which gate are you going to?”

“C15,” he said, scrambling for his ticket.

Her smile fell away. “C15?” She took the ticket as he produced it and scanned it, seemingly reading it a few times in a row. “CT1556? That’s not a flight I know of. And we don’t have a gate C15. Is this a typo?”

All of a sudden, Wayland noticed a man behind the security guard. It seemed as though he’d been standing there for a while, but Wayland hadn’t noticed him until just now. The man was dressed in an odd knee-length tan coat tied at the waist but open at the breast, revealing a garish blue shirt that met in the middle of his chest apparently without buttons or zipper. His rough black goatee filled out a handsome, serious face, framed by shoulder-length black hair. He tapped the security guard on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m assisting someone else at the moment.”

“Oh, I know. This is Wayland Ready, part of our school group.” The man gave Wayland a quick, friendly smile, then turned back towards the security guard. “I think he might have given you the ticket to our connecting flight. We’ll be taking off from gate C13. See?” He gestured over to the left, across the walkway, and there were twelve or thirteen children around the same age as Wayland taking up a section of seats, talking or staring at their phones.

The security guard hesitated. “Markus Young Preparatory School?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But weren’t you traveling alone?” she asked, turning to Wayland. Then, her eyes softened, shifting from suspicion to bewilderment. It seemed for a moment as though she’d forgotten where she was, then it seemed as though her memory returned to her. “Right. Carry on,” she said, and walked away – lightly, like she was strolling through a park.

Wayland looked back at the man just in time to see his hand return to his side and place something smoothly further into his sleeve. He opened his mouth to ask, but the man snatched his wrist and walked him over to the rest of the children – or where the rest of the children were. All of them, including their various backpacks, had vanished as though they were never there.

“Who are you? What is this?” Wayland said, beginning to panic.

“Calm yourself down now, Wayland,” the man said, his voice low. He sat in one of the seats and gestured for Wayland to sit, too, which he did not. “I am from the school. See?” He took a small ID card out of his pocket and displayed it as though Wayland would be able to tell whether this card was legitimate. “But you’re the only applicant in Maryland, and it was easier to get the guard to believe me if I looked like I was leading a whole group. Otherwise, I’m just a creepy guy in an airport.”

“Where did they all go?”

The man sighed. “They were never there. It was a little… trick of mine. Don’t worry, I’ll explain in depth later. In a lot of depth. In the meantime, let’s get to gate C15.”

Wayland almost questioned this as well, but had a feeling it would not yield any reasonable answers. “Wait,” he said. “I’m not going to follow a stranger around for no good reason. You need to tell me who you are right now before I scream.”

The man put his hand up. “Okay, don’t – don’t do that.” He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a short length of wood using his thumb and forefinger. “I am a wizard. And so are you.”

Wayland looked at the wand, blinked, and screamed.

Without missing a beat, the man stood and said some words Wayland didn’t recognize. Wayland stopped screaming, stepping back. He whipped his head around, but no one appeared to have heard him. They went about their business, completely ignoring the man posing with a wand and the child who was screaming until about a second ago.

“Very simple ignoring charm,” the man said. “Works on most mundies.”

Wayland didn’t move. The woman becoming confused, the fake children, this ‘simple ignoring charm’… “You’re a wizard?” he said quietly.

“I am, but you’re missing the more important part of what I told you.”

“I’m a wizard?”

The man smiled. “My name is Trevor. You can call me Professor Ibaia.” He held out a hand for Wayland to shake. “Nice to meet you, fellow wizard.”


	3. Watsawenna

Professor Ibaia had drawn a rectangle on the wall using his wand, and it had opened like a sliding door to reveal a glowing, swirling panel of bluish light. Wayland had been staring at it for a good ten seconds.

"You don't ask many questions, do you?" Ibaia said. He tapped his wand next to the panel and a small square popped into being, displaying a stylish white question mark.

"There are too many questions to ask," Wayland replied.

"I can only imagine," Ibaia said with an empathetic nod. "Well, this is a porthal. We use them to get around. They're all connected to the Nemo Network, which is this thing here," he added, tapping the small square. "See, watch." He cleared his throat and pressed the tip of the wand against the square. "Creek & Taschner External Campus, please."

The panel shifted and the bluish color began to vanish, replaced with an image of trees in a sunlit forest. Wayland rubbed his forehead with one hand and looked around at the passengers and security guards walking by like nothing was happening. A few glanced in their direction, but none of them seemed to take note of the jelly-like blue doorway on the wall. "Where's my luggage?"

Ibaia seemed taken aback. "I'm sorry?"

"My luggage. If my flight wasn't real, then who took my bags? Those are Mr. Yoon's bags. You better not have gotten rid of them."

Ibaia grinned at the vague warning. "Don't worry. This is one of the mundie airports that we're involved with. After all, we can't just let anyone draw porthals willy-nilly. This place is a place specifically designed for travelling wizards to use them. And, of course, the have to get in and out without arousing suspicion – so MACUSA hires folks, mostly squibs, to run luggage."

"I... I only understood a few of those words."

"Sorry. Don't mean to overwhelm you. It's a lot to take in, I'm sure." He tapped his wand to the square again. "Let's take a little detour and get you some supplies. Pen and paper won't be enough when you're learning magic."

Wayland continued to rub his forehead. "Do you have any Advil?"

"What's that?"

"... Never mind."

"Alright. To Watsawenna, please."

The scene in the porthal shifted again from a sunlit forest to one side of a cobblestone street. Across this street stood several close buildings connected by their facades, each distinct and antique. Signs along the street, all carved delicately from wood with bright gold and silver letters, read things like MARJORIE'S ENERGETIC BREWS AND POTIONS and FALCO REESE'S FAMILIAR EMPORIUM and other overlong titles with curious implications. The street was busy, and all of the commuters were dressed in long, dark robes, wide-brimmed hats of various kinds, and neat layered shirts with what seemed to be mostly old-timey breeches. It was like Halloween, Wayland thought, but it felt so casual and alive that it simply couldn't be theatrics. It was a hidden world.

Ibaia gestured. "After you, Mister Ready?"

* * *

They didn't blend well with the crowd at Watsawenna. First, Wayland was still wearing his usual dim red hoodie over a Batman T-shirt, and if he had to guess, he'd say no one nearby knew who Batman was. Second, he was staring so hard and so frequently at everything that his eyes were starting to hurt. Once he looked, bewildered, at a man with strange mutton chops magically pulling a cart behind him; the man looked back, and he realized his jaw was hanging open. He quickly receded into his jacket.

"This is actually Colorado," Ibaia was saying, as they brushed past an older woman carrying what appeared to be a bubble with eyes in a cage. "We're in the Rockies. Watsawenna is covered in enchantments so the mundies don't get too close. Been that way since the Witch Trials."

Wayland perked up. "I read about those," he said, surprised that something else surprised him today. "Those were real witches?"

"Mm. Well, some of them," Ibaia murmured in response. "Here," he said, interrupting himself, "is our first stop. My old friend Bella runs the place now, so maybe we'll get a discount, huh?" They'd paused in front of a huge building at the corner of a large, flat square, in the middle of which stood a fountain featuring a man with the head of a deer. The statue moved briefly, looking towards another part of the square, and Wayland rubbed his eyes, thinking it was a trick of the light.

The building itself appeared to be a bookstore – or otherwise a library. The double doors opened as they approached the stoop, revealing a flood of heavy tomes bound in heavy leather and scrolls stacked in pyramids on deep, labeled shelves. The main room, two stories tall, was lit with what seemed to be the solar system in miniature, huge decorated metal spheres orbiting slowly while floating just below the ceiling. Wayland was hit with the smell of yellowing paper as he followed Ibaia in and smiled for the first time in a while.

Ibaia took out a small notebook and flipped through it using his thumb. "Oh, that's more than I thought," he muttered. "You're doing Alchemy this year? We have to get to the reagent shop..."

Wayland resisted the temptation to reach for the nearest book and flip through it, instead tapping Ibaia on the arm. "Professor?" he said. "I only have twenty dollars. And I'm supposed to save it for emergencies."

Ibaia glanced down. "Don't worry about the price. I mean, most of the books are provided by the school. We're just looking for one." He tapped his temple with his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. " _Mnemancy and Amnemancy._ Can't share a book like that."

Wayland decided to venture carefully into his first real question. "Why is that?"

"I'm glad you asked. This subject is, in fact, my subject. See –"

As though on cue, the voice of a young woman came suddenly from the doorway. "Professor Ibaia! Fancy seeing you here!" Wayland and Ibaia both turned to the door, where a woman in long dark blue robes was standing in front of a group of children, mostly also robed. She wore a playfully accusative glare, one auburn eyebrow raised, hazel eyes glimmering. The children, in the meantime, looked up and around like nervous seagulls – which Wayland realized he must have resembled only a few seconds ago. They were far more talkative than he was, though, constantly murmuring or gasping in surprise or whispering excitedly to one another.

"Professor Daly," Ibaia said with a short, polite bowing of the head. "Is today acquisitions day? I suppose I'm accidentally on schedule."

"Oh," Daly said, looking down at Wayland. "This is the student you were in Maryland for, then?" She smiled kindly, but her eyes studied him. "I see this is your first stop. Ibaia loves to brag that his book is the only one you have to buy," she added, giving Wayland a wink.

"No, no, just happenstance," Ibaia said quickly. "Wayland, if you'd like, you can introduce yourself to your classmates. I have something I need to briefly discuss with Professor Daly."

Wayland looked between Ibaia and the other children, unsure, but stepped forwards hesitantly, leaving the adults to pace off into the shelves, whispering. Ibaia had taken his notebook out again. Within a few seconds, he was alone in the atrium with the other students.

"Are you a nomaj?" one of the students asked. It stood out from the rest of the conversation, so Wayland snapped to attention. The student in question was looking almost accusatively at him, his thumbs stuck under his belt like one might stuff their hands into their pockets. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, coming to a loose collar under his dark, soft-featured face. "At least you were raised that way," he added, stepping forwards and looking down at Wayland's shoes.

"I guess so," Wayland replied lowly, suddenly feeling more pairs of eyes on him. He fumbled on taking his hand out of the pocket of his hoodie and offered a handshake. "I'm – I'm Wayland. This is... it's the first time I've..."

The other student made eye contact again, now more quizzical than accusative, and took his handshake. "Logan," he said. "Logan Cooley. You know who I am?"

Wayland thought for a moment. "I do now," he said.

Logan's smirk turned into an earnest laugh. "Wow! I guess you must have really been raised by nomajs." He lifted his cloak near his chest to reveal a small crest, like the kind knights wore on their shields: it was bright red with a bull's head silhouette. "The Cooley family goes all the way back to Wales. Everyone knows about us," he added.

"Sorry," Wayland said. "I'm new."

"Don't worry about it," Logan replied, taking him by the shoulder. By this point, most of the other students had started to wander around the bookstore, except a few who were still watching. The tension had dissipated as soon as Logan had shaken his hand. "So, what's your sigil represent?" Logan continued, and pointed at the Batman symbol on Wayland's shirt.

Now it was Wayland's turn to laugh. "I dunno. Knightliness?"

* * *

As soon as the professors returned, they herded the students towards a small section of shelves under the stairs towards the back of the room, where they each picked up a flat, smooth white book. It felt like a solid piece of marble, though lighter; it was cool to the touch, and, most oddly, it wouldn't open. "We'll get into it later," Ibaia promised again.

Each of the students paid at the desk using a handful of coins, most of which were silver and octagonal. At the back of the line, Wayland took out his travel wallet and peeked at the twenty dollars – partially to make sure it was still there and partially to wonder why someone would carry around loads of coins instead of paper. However, when he reached the front of the line, Ibaia stepped in for him. "Bella," he said brightly to the woman behind the desk, leaning forwards to light her pipe with his wand. After some brisk, seemingly very rude conversation, Ibaia smiled and counted out some coins.

As they left, following Professor Daly's group, Wayland tapped Ibaia on the arm again. "Are you buying these things for me?"

"What? No, no," he said, waving a hand. "It's, um, paid for by the school."

Wayland could tell he was lying, but it wasn't currently his biggest concern. Especially once Logan and another boy (this one pale with hollow cheeks) fell back as the group arrived at a large building just off the main road. The building was built like a lodge, or what Wayland figured a lodge might look like – it was all wooden and built around a tall, almost looming A-frame. "Netsevoto's," Logan said, pointing at the building. "This is where you all are going to get your wands. I heard Netsevoto's been making wands for two hundred years up here. What do you think you look like at two hundred years old?"

Wayland shrugged. "Like a tired raisin?"

Logan broke into a smile. "See, I knew I liked you for a reason. Hey, this is Ernest," he added, patting the other boy on the shoulder. "He's my friend, too. Ernest, this is Wayland."

"Friends?" Wayland asked, peering at Logan.

"Well, sure. Don't you want to be friends?"

Wayland was surprised once again. Making friends with wizards was far easier than he'd anticipated. "Sure," he said. He paused, then shook his head, recalling what Logan was saying a few moments ago. "Wands?"

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, wands. You can't be a proper wizard without a wand, can you? Look," he said, reaching into his robe. He took out a small tan wand of his own, intricately decorated with a conch-like spiral and sporting a bull's head at the base. "This was my grandfather's wand. It's been passed down for hundreds of years."

"He can do some spells already, too," Ernest mentioned. He had a whistling, excitable sort of voice. "Logan! Do the one where you make him see blue!"

"See blue? Hold on, is this permanent?"

Logan had already begun to wave his wand. " _Cyaneos_ –"

All three boys leapt about two inches in the air when Ibaia suddenly appeared next to them and grabbed Logan's wand in one smooth motion. He clicked his tongue and guided Logan's hand back to his side. "You don't have your license yet, do you, Mister Cooley?"

Logan scowled for a moment, but then shook his head. "No, sir."

Ibaia straightened his overcoat and turned to Wayland. "So, Mister Ready, you're up first. There are some specifications that we need to discuss with Mr. Netsevoto. Are you... Ready?" His lips curled into a pinched smile as he landed the pun.

"I've heard it before, Professor," Wayland replied.


	4. Sharlie Heartstring

Wayland followed Ibaia alone into Mr. Netsevoto's. Apparently, the students were going one at a time. Wayland had no idea why, though – the entire lodge appeared to be one huge room, stuffed with dangerous-looking shelves full of what seemed to be necklace boxes. There were no displays and there was no front desk, or any sort of register, for that matter. Dust rose from the wooden floor as they walked, illuminated only by beams of sunlight from the small windows high on the walls.

"Students, I assume?" Wayland heard from behind a few shelves. Ibaia gestured and they turned a corner to reveal a small workstation made of four walls of shelves, maybe the size of a nice bathroom. On this side, the shelves were stocked with long blocks of wood and strange boxes and jars, and a lithe old Native American man with tied-back black hair sat at a table covered in little grooves and edges.

"This is the first one," Ibaia said, presenting Wayland.

The old man (presumably Netsevoto) looked up and examined Wayland. Wayland could see clouds in his eyes from behind his thick woodworker's glasses. "Ah," Netsevoto said, smiling and revealing surprisingly white teeth. "I was wondering why you were here, Trevor," he remarked, picking up a partly-carved blank sitting on the table. "I see you've become something of a chauffeur."

Ibaia put a hand in his pocket. "Well, Wayland needs some extra help. He's our only mundie-raised student this year. Also, I need to discuss his wand with you," he added, gesturing for him to leave. Wayland was becoming a little irritated with Ibaia constantly whispering about him behind his back.

Netsevoto seemed to pick up on Wayland's frustration, or he simply wasn't the type to stand for no good reason. He stared pointedly at Ibaia for a moment and placed the blank back down. "Is there a reason the boy can't hear?"

"Well… sort of."

"That's not good enough." Netsevoto chuckled and got to work once more, detailing part of the blank with an impressively steady hand. "Go on, then. Converse."

Ibaia paused, pushing his hair out of his face. "Alright," he began. "We believe Wayland may not benefit much from the use of a wand."

"Who's 'we'?" Wayland asked, turning to Ibaia. "Are you keeping tabs on me?"

"Keeping tabs? Oh," Ibaia said. "We investigate all our students before we start to talk to them."

"Why were you sent for me alone?" Wayland continued, the inconsistencies following one right after another. "And why does everyone already know who I am?"

"He thinks you're part of the Old Blood," Netsevoto said, hardly looking up from his blank.

For a moment, Wayland thought he misheard. "Old Blood?" he said, and Netsevoto nodded. He turned to Ibaia, whose expression confirmed it. "That sounds important, or scary. Can I… shoot fireballs or something?"

"Anyone can shoot a fireball after a little training," Ibaia said, as though trying to divert the conversation.

"I'm just a kid!" Wayland cried. "I saw someone shoot fireballs in a comic book once! I have no idea what's going on, and I'd like some answers now, please!"

Ibaia looked at Netsevoto, who was wearing a mischievous smirk as he touched up his project. "The Old Blood," Ibaia said hesitantly, "is a genetic lineage. See, some abilities are hereditary. The Old Blood, which has abilities like this, is a subject of research for Creek & Taschner. It may or may not have died out, but if it hasn't, you're one of very few people who belong to it."

Wayland opened his mouth to reply, but reconsidered. He never knew his father. His mother was the only one who raised him – and she was, by all accounts, a very normal woman. Though they didn't look much alike. He had olive-colored skin and black hair, and she had rosy white skin and blonde hair, which she usually wore short. All they shared was honey-brown eyes.

"You alright there, Wayland?"

Wayland snapped back to attention. He must have been thinking – remembering. "What does Old Blood do?" he said quietly.

"Well, if we're right, the Old Blood has a predilection towards wandless magic. Including animagic, which is a very complex form, learned by most wizards in higher education. That's why I wanted to discuss your wand in _private,_ " Ibaia said, glancing over at Netsevoto. "Have you ever had dreams of being an animal? Realistic dreams? Or, perhaps, have you ever made some very strange occur when you were angry?"

Wayland sighed, thinking back again. "No," he said with some finality.

Ibaia blinked. "No?"

"No. Nothing like that. Nothing weird, no… animal dreams."

He glanced up to see Ibaia puzzled with a hand on his goatee. "Odd," he murmured. "Well, let's get to fitting, I suppose. Any ideas about the Old Blood?" he asked Netsevoto.

Netsevoto stood slowly, using the table. "Perhaps we start with the normal rounds. Unicorn hair… I think ash wood."

* * *

Netsevoto disappeared into the dark forest of shelves and Ibaia went to sit in a bench near the door, picking up a newspaper lying nearby. Wayland put his hands in his hoodie pockets again and wandered over. "What did you mean, 'odd'?"

"Wizards often cause accidental magic when they've very young. Nothing to worry about, though. It doesn't happen to everyone." Ibaia turned the page and Wayland noticed the pictures were moving as though they were small videos printed onto the paper. He paused, closed the paper, and beckoned, his face softening. "Listen," Ibaia said as Wayland stepped closer. "I'm not very good at this. I'm supposed to be the mundie envoy, too. Can you believe that? I still have no clue how to introduce kids like you to all this. At least you haven't cried on me yet," he added with a weak smile.

Wayland lowered his head a little. "It's okay. I'll get used to it eventually." He sat down next to Ibaia. "What if I'm not a wizard?"

"I'm sure you're a wizard."

"What if I'm not?" He looked over. "Are you going to delete my memories and send me back?"

"More or less," Ibaia said, turning another page of the newspaper. "Don't worry. You won't remember it."

They both looked up as Netsevoto returned from the back, carrying a stack of small boxes. Wayland stood, suddenly nervous. Even though it was overwhelming, it was probably miles better than middle school. Now, if he didn't do whatever he was supposed to do with a wand, he'd wake up the next morning like nothing happened.

Netsevoto walked around the counter with two of the boxes. "These are traditional," he began, more energetic than he had been a moment ago. It was like he'd lost sixty years in the back, picking out wands. "Unicorn hair and ash, like I mentioned, and this is dragon heartstring and poplar." He opened the boxes one at a time and in each sat an intricate length of tapered wood sitting in a nest of cotton. "Go on, then."

Wayland carefully took one of the wands, the unicorn one. It was heavier than he'd thought. He stood there with it for a moment, then pointed it vaguely at the wall next to where Ibaia was sitting.

"Give it a flick," Netsevoto said, and grabbed his shoulders, moving him away from Ibaia. "And do watch where you point it."

He gave it a flick. Instantly, a wave of red and blue energy, like the fallout of a nuclear bomb, flew from the tip of the wand, blasting the wall with a sound like cannon fire. Wayland flinched and fell backwards, the wand tumbling to the floor with a clatter. All three of them stepped back and turned to the wall. As the smoke cleared, it revealed a huge crater just below one of the small windows. The reason for the small windows became suddenly apparent to Wayland.

"Thank you for not aiming it at me," Ibaia murmured, placing the newspaper carefully back onto the bench.

"Maybe that one's not a great pick for you," Netsevoto said, plucking the wand from Wayland's hand.

"Are you sure?" Wayland asked, standing slowly. "It was kind of cool." The anxiety from before had washed away with the explosion. He could do magic. It was a little dangerous, perhaps, but it was real. Real magic.

"The primary cores aren't going to work. If unicorn does that," Netsevoto muttered, flipping his wand at the wall, "dragon will blow us to pieces." The pieces of the wall shuddered and returned to their places. In a few moments, it's like the explosion had never happened. "No, no, no. We need something more… more…"

Wayland dusted off his jeans while Netsevoto shifted through boxes. He glanced behind him. Several students had opened the door and were staring wide-eyed at the wall before they were tugged away, one by one, by the collars of their cloaks. Professor Daly poked her head in and gave a final, surprised glance before shutting the door.

"Ah." Netsevoto took out a dark olive box. "Jackalope antler. Temperamental, but there is an ancient soul in the jackalope. It's tied to the earth in a certain way. Perhaps the Old Blood might respond to old wisdom."

Wayland took the wand like it might bite him. "Where – where do I point it?"

"The wall, again. We'll stand back," Netsevoto said, moving to the other side of the room.

Wayland glanced behind him, now more nervous, and flicked the wand at the wall, bracing himself and shutting his eyes. Instead of an explosion, though, he felt the floor shudder and smelled what he thought might be oranges. He opened his eyes a crack and looked at the wall. Bricks had slid out of position and stacked themselves neatly on the floor. He watched as they melted and turned into an orange liquid, which puddled around his feet. Orange juice.

"Did you just turn the wall into orange juice?" Ibaia asked from across the room.

Netsevoto walked up and plucked that wand from his hand, too. "No, the jackalope is unreliable. And mischievous." He shuffled through more boxes. As he did, he brushed past a distinct box made of a deep orange wood and sporting dim bronze hinges, and Wayland felt the box suddenly tugging on him like an impatient child might tug on his mother's dress.

"Wait," Wayland said. He pointed. "What's that one?"

Netsevoto looked between him and the box for a moment, then stared back up at Wayland. His eyes were sharp and focused behind his glasses. "You felt something, didn't you?"

"It was… it caught my attention."

Netsevoto opened the box and extracted the wand. Roughly a foot long, it was constructed of a light tan wood, tapering up from a smooth, sanded point to a curling handle to a naturalistic pommel. Small abstract patterns decorated the lower third, giving it a weighty look. He looked it over again and then handed it to Wayland. "I had considered it," he said lowly.

Wayland took it carefully and bit the inside of his lip. He pointed it at the wall and flicked it – and nothing happened.

"Sugar maple," Netsevoto said. "And sharlie heartstring."

"What's a sharlie?" Wayland asked, reaching out to hand the wand back.

Netsevoto didn't move to retrieve it. "It's the white people's name for it. A creature of great intelligence, but a creature that only hates. They have long haunted America's many lakes. I'd hoped that you might find a better match in another wand, but I saw her, and I felt it." He gestured to the wall.

Wayland turned around to look at the wall again. It was completely clean. No orange juice on the ground, all the bricks where they were supposed to be. It was like nothing had happened.

"Yes," Netsevoto murmured. "The wand chooses the wizard."

"Was that a complete reversal spell?" Ibaia breathed, walking quickly over and running his hand over the wall. "Clear. Either the liquid was transfigured back into a solid and replaced, which is two separate spells, or it was complete reversal. Did you see, Mr. Netsevoto?"

"I didn't see a thing."

Wayland examined the wand as Ibaia returned to the counter, dragging a bewildered hand through his hair. He did feel drawn to it, somehow, but the wand seemed to be almost taunting him. There was something at best mischievous and at worst malicious in it, something well aware of Wayland and something that beckoned at him subtly. "So the creature… the sharlie is evil?"

"Not evil," Netsevoto said, his voice still low. "None of nature's creatures are truly evil."

Ibaia paid silently and they made their way back out of the lodge. Wayland's eyes were still locked on the wand, watching as they stepped outside and it reflected the sunlight like a freshly-sharpened kitchen knife. Suddenly, something Netsevoto said clicked in his head and he turned to Ibaia with a gasp.

"Dragon heartstring?" he said excitedly. "That means dragons are real!"


	5. Warm Welcome

Wayland spent most of the morning silent, listening to Logan talk with a group on the grass and thinking about his wand. He’d gotten several questions – “Was that explosion you?” “What happened?” “What’s your wand look like?” – but he shrugged them away. He didn’t like the attention.

Logan did. Logan loved it. He had his wand out the whole time while talking, guiding the conversation as often as he could back to himself. He wasn’t being selfish, per se, or rude. He was simply very proud of his wand, and wanted everyone to know. “My grandfather used this wand in the First Wizarding War back in Wales,” Logan said, holding it upside-down so everyone could see the bull carved into the pommel. “They sent it overseas to our side of the family so I could use it.”

While Logan was flipping it around, Wayland flinched, moving out of the way just in case something like that explosion happened again. “What are you doing?” Logan asked. “I’m not going to cast something at you.”

“Well, when I did that…”

“Oh, when you were testing wands?” Logan asked. “Don’t worry. That’s before you own one. They stop after that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. My mother says they have a mind of their own.”

Wayland frowned at this idea and examined his own wand again.

Eventually, all twenty-five members of the first-year group had tested and chosen a wand – some beech, some oak, mostly unicorn hair or dragon heartstring. Wayland kept the contents of his wand to himself. Herded by Ibaia and Daly, they returned to the flat brick wall where they’d teleported in; Wayland hadn’t noticed it before, but the wall was surrounded by a wooden frame over which a decorative sign read “PORTHALS”. He took some comfort in the fact that this world was at least a bit organized.

One by one, the students filed through the porthal that Ibaia had drawn and Wayland, who’d naturally gravitated towards the back of the group, ended up last. The scene in the porthal, tinted with swirling blue, was the forest from before, though it had grown overcast. Professor Daly put a hand on his shoulder and motioned, wordlessly, for him to enter.

On the other side of the porthal was a lightly wooded meadow, shady under a dense layer of grey clouds, where the students had begun to gather in an agitated circle near Ibaia. Wayland glanced behind him to discover with some surprise that there was no wall. As Daly stepped through, the porthal vanished, collapsing on itself like a little black hole.

“Welcome, first-years,” Ibaia said as Wayland approached, “to the Creek & Taschner School of the Magical Arts! We’ll start with a brief orientation around campus, if you’ll follow Professor Daly.”

Through the trees, on a majestic, rolling green hill, was a huge Colonial building. Five stories at least, a bright white triangular frieze sat over a sprawling colonnade, through which dozens of students were going about their business with their books and robes and wands and brooms. Brooms? Wayland would have to enquire later. They moved to a quaint stone pathway nearby that led them up the hill; beyond the hill, there were six or seven other buildings, all of monumental size and design, set in a strict circle around a huge cobblestone yard. Wayland’s eyes widened as the colors of the cobblestone shifted into new designs every few seconds.

Daly, who had taken point as Ibaia fell to the back, turned, wearing an amused smile as the students oohed and ahhed. “The campus is made up of class buildings and dormitories. There are two dormitories –“ she gestured towards two of the buildings “– one boys’ dorm and one girls’ dorm. Follow me for the rest of the tour, children!”

As the group proceeded down to the yard, Wayland glanced behind him again for Ibaia, but instead almost jumped as he met eyes with a girl about his age, wearing dark blue robes with a small calligraphic symbol on the breast that read C&T. He was about to say hello, but then remembered where he was. “… Professor Ibaia?”

The girl blinked. “What about him?”

“Nothing,” Wayland said quickly. “Hi, I’m Wayland.” He offered his hand.

She looked down at it, then scanned him quickly. “You’re dressed funny.”

He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets again. “I’m new.”

She looked up at the rest of the group ahead and gasped. “You’re mundie-born?”

“I don’t know. That means not a wizard, right?”

“Yup,” she said, giggling. She was just shorter than he was and had dimples when she smiled. “I’m Jasmine. Are you on the tour?” He nodded, and she looked up at Professor Daly, who was still leading the group to the nearest building. “The tour’s bunk. Nothing important happens. Here, come with me.”

“Is – is that a good idea?” Wayland half-whispered. He didn’t know how well wizards could hear.

“Who cares?” she rebutted, and offered her hand.

* * *

They cut across campus as soon as the group was out of sight. “I’m in second year now,” Jasmine said as they ducked into a large cloister that ran along the back of the Main Hall. It was empty, and their footsteps echoed. “See? Defense Against the Dark Arts.” She gestured to her cloak, as though that was an explanation. “We call it DADA. Which focus are you going to do?”

“Focus?” Wayland waved his hands to slow her down. “I don’t know anything about focuses. I don’t know anything about dark arts, either. I think I could guess, though.”

Jasmine only shook her head, bewildered, and they sat down on a ledge between two of the columns. She crossed her legs and took out what looked like a small purse from a pocket on the inside of her cloak. “Look,” she said, jamming her arm all the way into the purse. Wayland almost gasped. “You’re going to need a lot more than a tour of campus to get used to how things work around here,” she said, yanking out a small folded piece of paper with an odd amount of effort and handing it to him.

He opened it carefully, since it seemed old. On the inside, there was an ink drawing of a perfect circle. For a moment, he wondered whether he should compliment her artwork. To be polite.

“Oh, it’s not working again, is it?” She flicked the page and other small details in ink came into view spreading outwards from the flick like a wave. “It’s a campus map. It’ll tell you about the buildings and stuff if you tap it with your wand.”

Wayland nodded, not wishing to test it out at the moment. He slipped it into his backpack and turned to Jasmine. “What about everything else, though? Focuses?”

“They’ll get to that at the feast,” she said, waving the comment away. “You should join DADA. We get to beat up dark wizards. Eventually.” She reached back into the coinpurse and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a viscous yellow liquid. “This is what I wanted to get to, though. Some girl sold me this on the train over. She said it would make you fly for a little while, and I couldn’t wait to try it out. You do half first, though.”

“You’re just going to drink something that someone sold you? Even though you don’t know what it is?”

“It’ll be fine,” she said, waving her hand again.

“And you pulled me out of the tour to be your guinea pig?”

Jasmine laughed and shook the bottle at him. “Don’t you want to fly? Isn’t it worth a shot?”

“A few minutes ago, I waved a stick around and I turned a wall to orange juice,” Wayland retorted. “I’m going to be careful for now. But you can try it.”

“To think you’d let a lady try something dangerous all by herself!” Jasmine cried, and quirked a playful eyebrow at him. “See you later, sucker. I’m climbing the dome.”

Suddenly, a voice from behind them: “Don’t spoil your appetite.”

They both yelped and stood up in surprise, whipping around. Jasmine had her wand at the ready, and Wayland had his hands up. He wondered briefly whether startling people was a wizarding pastime. Of course, it wasn’t a threat. It was, instead, an older man wearing small wire-frame glasses and sporting a long, wispy beard. His robes, unlike the robes of the rest of the staff, were decorative and had a broad, colorful collar. He stood with his hands behind him and eyed them both with an indiscernible attitude.

“Headmaster,” Jasmine stammered, putting her wand away. For a moment, she seemed to be searching for something to say. “What a surprise!”

The Headmaster turned to sit on the ledge. “You might be more surprised by the time,” he said, taking out a small fob watch from the inside of his robe. His voice was weathered and deep. “I believe you should be in your introductory Potions class, Jasmine?” he asked, turning and holding his hand out.

Jasmine looked at it for a moment and handed him the small vial. “I’m sorry, Headmaster,” she said. “Just excited to be back.”

The Headmaster smiled. “Aren’t we all? Now, hurry, before Professor Piemonte starts the semester with a grudge.” As Jasmine waved goodbye to Wayland and turned to jog away, the Headmaster finally lifted his legs over the ledge to face completely forwards. “Wayland Ready,” he said with a knowing smile. “It’s good to see you’re making friends so quickly.”

“Thanks.” Wayland spoke carefully. The Headmaster was something like a principal, if he had to guess. “Sir,” he began, “why wasn’t I told about all this… months ago? So I could pick a focus and – and learn all the things wizards say?”

“Because,” the Headmaster replied, “we didn’t know whether you were a wizard until you used a wand for the first time. To be honest, Wayland, you were sort of a risk.” The Headmaster laughed. “Not that Creek & Taschner are strangers to risk-taking. Now, you don’t have to take a focus until next year. You’d know this if you were on the tour,” he added, standing slowly and placing a gentle hand on Wayland’s shoulder. He began to guide him back out of the cloister. “And, Wayland?” he added, turning once more. “Never ‘sir’. Headmaster, if you must.”

* * *

By that evening, after Wayland had caught up with Professor Daly’s tour group and seen the grand Herbology greenhouse and the Extraspatial Library (“a touch bigger inside than out”, Daly had said) and the Building of Charms, Wayland was just about ready to collapse into the closest bed and pass out. But the main event was just on the horizon – the feast – and Wayland hadn’t eaten since that morning.

The group, now walking more slowly and speaking more quietly, followed Daly up the hill one more time to the Main Hall and filed in through the huge wooden front doors of the building. Inside, it was huge. The atrium connected to a grandiose stairway that led to all five stories, and all along the walls were dozens of large, stately paintings. Wayland almost didn’t blink when the subjects of these paintings began to wave and welcome the students in.

Just up a small flight of stairs beyond the atrium was a lavish dining room, one that Wayland could have only imagined existed in the homes of medieval kings or European barons. Two stories of balconies ran alongside the hallways of the floors above, making the room feel even more open, adding to its size. From the ceiling hung antique brass chandeliers, and along the floor ran three long rugs between which stood dark wooden tables. However, the most breathtaking thing about the room was the fact that it was not empty. Hundreds of other students, all wearing robes of various colors and sitting at the dozens of tables around the room, looked up and talked amongst themselves as the first-year students began to file in.

The Headmaster was already at the front of the room, standing at a Colonial podium before a long table perpendicular to the rest; this table appeared to seat the rest of the professors, including an oddly dour Ibaia. “Our guests of honor!” he called out, and Daly motioned for the first-year students to sit at two empty (designated, perhaps) tables at the very front. Daly then took her place at the long table alongside the other adults.

The room grew quiet as the Headmaster raised his hand. “Welcome, one and all, to the two hundred and twenty-second year of the Creek & Taschner School of the Magical Arts! Or, as some of you might know it,” he said, adjusting his glasses and smiling down at the first-years, “Markus Young Preparatory School.”

The students laughed briefly, but Wayland felt almost as though the laughter was targeted at him. He sunk into his hoodie.

“Here, you will learn to command magic, the fundamental art of wizardkind, and you will learn it well. Creek & Taschner has long been the foremost American school to specialize in mental charms and illusions – a specialization borne out of necessity, yes, but out of a love for the craft, as well.” The Headmaster paused, his voice echoing in the hall. “I am Headmaster Schwarz.” He added something in another language, then smiled again – a full and genuine smile that set Wayland more at ease. “And for our first-year students, stay safe and work hard. Anyway, why aren’t you eating? The food is right in front of you.”

Wayland frowned and glanced back at the table. For a moment, the table was empty, like it had been, and then, like it moved out of a blind spot in his vision, the table was suddenly laden with foods of all kinds – roasted meats, sausages, salads and fruits, biscuits with butter and jelly. He held back a grin as the students around him gasped and laughed and as he heard someone shout from the back of the room “I almost had you this time!”

For a moment, he forgot about the wand, and the Old Blood, and the bizarre implications of wizards and magic, and for a moment, everyone else forgot about his hoodie and his Batman shirt and his reluctance to draw attention to himself. After all, they were hungry, and tomorrow would be another adventure.


End file.
